


What Are You Doing for the Summertime?

by Rly



Category: Booksmart (2019)
Genre: Accidental Orgasm, Awkward, F/F, Hope's Jacket, Kissing, Oral Sex, more awkward
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-08-19 16:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20212474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rly/pseuds/Rly
Summary: When Amy's trip is delayed, she and Hope have a chance to try dating, if they can pull it off.





	1. I don’t like meek people

The Botswana trip is delayed by three weeks because two of the grad students serving as chaperones came down with mono and the organizers are scrambling to find replacements. 

Amy doesn’t mind. But is Hope even still in town? And … "What do I do? Do I call her? How do I call her? What would I say?”

"Text her,” Molly points out, again, from the lower bunk where she’s been texting Jared. This is the fourth time she’s said those words.

"But what do I text her? I mean, it was so bad, you don't even know how bad it was.” Amy groans and stares at the ceiling. 

Molly’s voice floats up to her. ”She said you kind of know what you’re doing! You told me! Text her!"

Amy texts:_ Do you want to do something? _

A minute later Hope replies: _ Yes _

“Oh my god. She replied. Fast. That’s good right? That’s good. She said 'yes,' what do I say? ... “ Amy scrambles down from her bunk to show Molly the glowing, one-word answer on the phone next to Hope’s photo (copied from one of the party pics) and her name. 

Molly takes the phone away from Amy and types: _ Like what? _

Hope: _ What do you want to do? _

Molly-as-Amy: _ Ice cream in the park? _

Hope: _ Sure. That sounds cute. Where? _

Molly hands the phone back to Amy saying, "You're welcome." 

*

Ice cream in the park seems safe enough, Amy thinks on her way there. Date-like. She’s going on a date with a girl! That she’d already pretty much fingered—almost in the right place—and really wanted to be doing that again—in exactly the right place—except without any of the disaster parts. 

They get ice cream at the stand by the park that has the second best ice cream in town but a way better location than the first best. They sit between the playground and the dog park, at a white plastic table with a sun shade that used to be smaragdine (one of Amy’s favorite color words from a junior high pop quiz) or maybe just blue.

Hope is in that jacket and denim shorts. Amy is pretty sure she’s wearing a tank top under the jacket. Or a sleeveless shirt. But all she can see when she looks at Hope is her on the bathroom floor in nothing but that black bra. Should she have tried to get the bra off first? Should she next time, if there is a next time? There should really be a next time.

Hope asks, “What are you doing in Botswana?” 

Also the intersection of ice cream and Hope’s lips is insanely good. Words aren’t quite wording together in Amy’s brain. It takes her a minute to remember that Hope asked her a question.

“Helping roll tampons,” she says. “It’s important. Lions, you know.”

“I don’t.”

“Uh, they’re drawn by the smell of blood and—“

“How often do lions actually attack people?” Hope asks in a beyond-dubious tone. “More often than people do?”

“No, but I mean, sometimes, and it’s about women’s bodies and shame and cultural messages.”

“And a free trip to Botswana, I get it,” Hope says. “I want to get away from here too.” 

“And go where? Just wander? What _ do _ you want?” Amy means to ask about life in general, but it comes out like she’s asking about sex things because she is, while trying really hard not to.

Hope’s eyebrows go up, one higher than the other. “We’re talking about you. What do _ you _ want?” 

Amy looks everywhere but at Hope: at the park toys with the kids shrieking around them, the weird little concrete hut that holds the bathrooms, the ice cream stand, the wood chips, the sidewalk and the tiny, tan dog taking a proportionally massive crap next to the sidewalk. 

When she does glance at Hope, more pale ice cream is disappearing between those full lips. Hope holds her gaze. Like she’s daring Amy to say the only answer in her brain:_ you! I want you!_

But Amy can’t say it. She looks away again. 

Peripherally, she sees Hope shrugs as she says, “You don’t know what you want. But let me ask you this: do you really think anti-lion tampons is the _ best _ you can do with your summer?”

“Oh like _ you’re _ even doing anything. This is a terrible idea.” 

Amy gets up and tosses the rest of her ice cream in the trash, stalks a half-dozen steps away and pauses in the shade of the bathroom hut to look back. Hope is standing, almost smiling. She turns to the table they’d been sitting at and picks up the napkins. Her ass in those shorts with her much too hot jacket … Amy is not letting Hope win by mean-girling their date into oblivion.

She stalks back, grabs the sleeve of the jacket and pulls Hope behind the bathroom hut.

“You’re making my ice cream melt,” Hope says. 

Not a complaint. A fact, for sure. But it pisses Amy off anyway because she’s mad enough now that everything’s just going to make her madder. 

Hope has eaten down the top half of the scoop, leaving a squat oval on a cone, starting to drip down the sides. Amy rakes two fingers through the ice cream and smears it across Hope’s lips. 

“You want your ice cream? Here.”

Eyes widen with surprise, that smirky smile turns the corners of her mouth as Hope opens her lips. Amy puts the second finger-scoop of ice cream in Hope’s mouth, following with her own lips and tongue, tasting caramel and sweet cream—and without the booze and cigarettes of the party, Hope tastes like “yes” and “oh my god” and “please can I take your pants off again?” 

She pulls back to check Hope’s dark eyes, to make sure she’s smiling. She is, even as the rest of her ice cream is melting down her hand. Amy grabs her wrist, licks sweetness off her fingers, the cone cracking as Hope’s hand tenses under her tongue. 

“You’re making a mess,” Amy tells her. 

“_You’re _ making the mess,” Hope says. She holds the top of the ice cream cone in her thumb and index finger, then flicks her hand so that the cone falls to the ground and she can palm the last melting glob of ice cream. 

Amy’s wondering if she’s supposed to open her mouth and let Hope feed it to her, when Hope rubs her cold, ice-cream-coated hand up under Amy’s shirt, across her belly. One icy mass sticks in her belly button. Another clump slides down to her waistband. Hope’s hand continues, smooth and cool, to her side, to her hip, pulling her closer. 

Amy grabs the waistband of Hope’s shorts and slides her fingers under it, tracking downward, moving by feel because they’re kissing again, hard and breathless. This time, she’s doing it right. She’s under Hope’s panties, angling down, beginning to feel wetness—very hot wetness, not at all like the cool trail of ice cream melting down from her belly button. 

“Mommy, there’s people kissing!” a kid yells from way too close. 

They break apart and run, hand in hand, from the park to the stores. Walk along the sidewalk, still holding hands, partially stuck together with melted ice cream. The big glob of ice cream that had been stuck behind Amy’s waistband melts enough to slide down the inner curve of her hip. She stops, jolted by the cold slither of it. 

“Problem?” Hope asks, lips still in that amused smirk, probably because Amy is staring down at her own crotch. 

“You put ice cream down my pants. It’s slithering into places ice cream should not go.” 

Hope laughs so hard she has to lean back against a sign post, but she doesn’t let go of Amy’s hand. 

“So, take me home, we’ll shower,” Hope says. 

“I can’t.”

"Aren't you out to your parents? You've been out to everyone for years.”

"Yeah but they think I'm dating Molly.”

"Of course they do. You could tell them you’re not.”

“Firstly, it’s not like I could shower with you at my house anyway,” Amy points out. “I mean, not if my parents knew. And secondly, that would be a whole thing. You don’t know my parents. And I haven’t talked to Molly about it. I can’t just fake break up with her without asking her. Can we go to your house?”

“Nope."

“Why not?”

“Long story. I guess it’s each to our own showers then. Text me,” Hope says, drops Amy’s hand and walks off down the street. 

There’s half of an ice-cream wet handprint on her ass. 

It is impossible for Amy to stay angry watching her half handprint walk away on Hope’s ass. 


	2. You’re just a basic hot girl

Later that night, after only obsessing for two to four hours, Amy texts Hope:  _ Tomorrow?  _ She hopes the one word text comes across as cool, but then worries that it isn’t enough. What if Hope thinks she’s not that into her? What if Hope thinks she way too into her and trying too hard to play it cool? What if Hope thinks both of those things at the same time?

Twenty minutes later, Hope texts back:  _ Can’t. Have a thing with my dad. Thursday? _

Amy:  _ I’m supposed to help around the house. I’ll see if I can move that to tomorrow and free up Thursday. _

Hope:  _ You’re hot when you sound like a middle-aged executive. _

Amy:  _ Really? _

Hope:  _ No.  _

Amy glares at her phone, drops it from the foot of her bed to the top of her laundry hamper, means to lie down and read, but ends up just glaring at her phone more from a distance. 

This is a horrible mistake. 

Except nine-tenths of her body does not feel that way. Nineteen days until she leaves for Botswana and she wants to be kissing Hope every one of those days. She wants to be on top of her again, feeling Hope’s body arch under hers. 

She sighs, turns around in her bed, makes sure her door is shut and reaches for her panda. 

*

Wednesday afternoon, Amy is about done dusting the living room—she actually likes dusting, it’s calming—when her phone buzzes.

Hope:  _ Open your window. _

Amy:  _ Which one? _

Hope:  _ How many windows do you have? Your  _ ** _bedroom_ ** _ window. _

Amy glances toward the back of the house. Her dad is in the kitchen and her mom in the garden. At least an hour until dinner. She probably can sneak Hope in through her window. 

She dashes into her bedroom, opens the window and pushes up the screen. Hope folds in on herself, slides over the sill and stands up. Different shorts (still denim), different sleeveless shirt (also white), same jacket. 

“I thought you had a thing today,” Amy says, feeling immediately stupid. 

“Yeah, I got done early. You?”

“My parents are home. We’ve got dinner soon.”

“I’m not invited, huh? You haven’t fake broken up with Molly yet?” Hope asks. “Are you fake having an affair with me?”

“No! Molly knows about us. She’s all for us. I just don’t want to deal with the huge, enormous, very extra deal my parents are going to make about it.”

“Well as long as they don’t know about us, it won’t seem suspicious  _ at all _ that you have me in your bedroom.” Hope stops, mouth open like she was about to say more, and stares slowly around the room. “So, this is all your bedroom but you have a bunk bed?”

"I sleep on the top.”

"Of course you do.” 

"The bottom is Molly’s."

“Ugh."

"Don't dis Molly." 

“I am not getting into a bed with you that’s the bed of your fake girlfriend,” Hope says. “And I am not falling out of a top bunk or watching you fall out and having to explain that shit.” 

Amy wants to have a great retort to that, but all she can do is picture Hope in her bed, under her, a million million times better than her stuffed panda. Which reminds her not to look at the panda—she’s still feeling a little guilty about using it in place of Hope last night—and she’s not looking at Hope, so that leaves her staring down at her desk. 

Hope turns to the bookshelf above the desk and runs her finger along it. "Wow, Mary Oliver. I was so into her when I was thirteen. You don't have any other poets? Did you just buy her after googling 'feminist poets' or what? What about Morgan Parker? Hera Lindsay Bird? Nothing? No flicker of recognition? Rebecca Tamas? Louise Gluck? You don't even like poetry, do you? Why do you have a whole shelf of poetry if you don’t even read it?”

"Did you break into my bedroom to be mean?” Amy asks.

"You let me in.”

"Not so you could critique my taste in poetry.”

"What did you want me to critique?" Hope asks. 

She has that look that Amy’s starting to think of as her “yes, please” look: intense, dark eyes narrowing, lips smirking up and almost pouting, or maybe they’ve always got that slightly pouty, kissable curve to them. 

Amy kisses her. It’s getting easier to fall into a rhythm of lips pressing together, mouths opening. She’s stopped thinking about her breathing except when a quick inhale through her nose brings the scent of Hope’s hair and she has to kiss harder. 

When she pauses, making sure Hope is still smiling, Hope says, “That is much better than your ignorance about poetry. You know what, you should take those books to Botswana and give them to the menstruating lion girls.”

Amy wipes the smirk off her lips with a series of deeper kisses that push Hope against the wall with a thump. 

Amy's mom calls from the front of the house, "Honey, are you okay?" Footsteps. Crap!

Amy shoves Hope behind the closet door. Hope rolls her eyes but tucks out of sight as Amy’s mom opens the door to the bedroom. 

Resting one hand on the desk, Amy manages to say, "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine. I just dropped a book.” Then, realizing there was no book on the floor to have been dropped, Amy walks to the door and accompanies her mom into the hall.

“Do you want to see the vegan meatballs we’re using? They’re new,” her mom offers. “Do you think Molly will like them? Is she coming to dinner?”

“I don’t know. She’s spending a lot of time with Jared. I’m sure the meatballs are great. I’m just going to finish … deciding which books to take with me.”

Amy waits until her mom is all the way back in the kitchen. Then she ducks back into her bedroom where Hope is leaning against her desk reading  _ Feminism Without Borders _ by Chandra Talpade Mohanty—in the middle.

“What chapter are you in?” Amy asks, mostly snark. 

“Eight. You know, ‘Race, Multiculturalism, and Pedagogies of Dissent’ I found her use of intersubjectivity really cut into my perspective, you know, the way I assume that my culture is the right way, often without realizing it.”

Amy means to say, “Oh,” but what comes out sounds like she’s breathlessly stubbed her toe. Mean Hope is midsummer-day-in-a-heatwave hot, but ultra-smart Hope saying “pedagogies” and “intersubjectivity” is center-of-the-sun hot. She’s whatever the hottest stars are hot. She’s the hotness of a bunch of those stars colliding in a super-hot-nova.

“What? You disagree?” Hope asks, closing the book and putting it on the desk. “Are you sure you don’t just have a white saviour complex?”

Amy gets herself the rest of the way across the room and loops one hand around the back of Hope’s neck, pulling her down to kiss. Her other hand finds the waist of Hope’s shorts, and navigates up her ribs to her breast. Hope whispers, “Wait,” and shrugs out of her jacket. 

Amy catches it and drapes it over the back of her desk chair. It is by far the smoothest thing she’s ever done, so she follows that victory with slipping her fingers under Hope’s bra. Hope strips off her shirt. Amy considers the bra and whether she can get it unhooked from this angle, but Hope nods across the room and asks, “Does your bedroom door not lock?”

"I've never locked it,” Amy admits. “I don’t know what my parents would do if I did. Freak out, probably.” 

“Huh. You don't seem like the kind of girl who never gets herself off, so, how do you manage that?”

Hope’s dark eyes staring down at her, asking that, Amy wants to tell her everything and show her and do all of it with her. 

"Late at night,” she says. “Or in the shower." 

"Do you have one of those fancy shower heads?”

"No, just my fingers and stuff.”

“Your fingers,” Hope says in a voice that makes it absolutely clear what Amy should be doing with her fingers. 

Hope rests back against the wall, silently, as Amy leans into her, their mouths together again. Amy slips her fingers down the front of Hope’s shorts. She can’t get much between her legs, the shorts are tight, just enough to feel the wetness there. Slipping around, not sure she’s got this right, but Hope’s breath is faster now, catching when Amy’s fingers slip upward, so she does more of that. 

If she keeps going—she has to keep going—will Hope come, just from Amy’s touch? Can she really make another person feel the way she has alone at night? She wants this as much as she’s ever wanted anything, especially with Hope, whose head is tipped back now, chest heaving, small sounds coming from her throat. Does she even know she sounds like that? 

Amy feels like she could come too, just from the rush, the power, from panting as fast as Hope is, from the synchronicity of their bodies, they’re so close— 

“Oh WOW!” Molly yelps from the doorway and hops back into the hall. Amy hears her calling toward the kitchen, “We’re okay! No need to check on us. Everything is completely fine here. Please go about your business. Everybody is A-okay. Nothing to see here, people, nothing at all.” 

“So, nobody knocks,” Hope groans. Her head is still tipped back and up, but Amy can see her eyes are winced shut, an expression of pain. 

And she loves being needed like that at the same time she wants to take that pain away. But Hope is also buttoning up her shorts, since Amy yanked her hand out as soon as Molly yelled. 

“I’m really sorry,” she says. 

Hope shakes her head and opens her eyes, blinking to focus, her dark, burning look so intense that Amy leans toward her, reaches out. 

“Hi!” Molly chirps brightly on her way back in through the door. She shuts it firmly behind her. “I didn’t know we were at the bedroom stage. I mean, good to see you. Should I go?” 

Amy drops her hand. 

“I’m leaving,” Hope says. She perches on the window sill and swings one leg over. 

“Wait,” Molly calls. “You should come on a date with us.”

“With … both of you? Like a fake girlfriend triple date? Are we fake poly too?” 

“A double date. Me and Jared. Friday?”

“Yeah, sure,” Hope says and slips out through the open window. 

“Hope!” Amy leans out the window and grabs and handful of her shirt, pulls her back to kiss. “For tomorrow. In case I don’t see you.” 

Hope opens her mouth, shuts it, kisses Amy again and then whispers, “Later, nerd,” before sauntering down the walk. Amy does not make herself stop watching. Where the walk meets the sidewalk, Hope turns back, sees her, smirks, and keeps walking.

  
  



	3. How to clean vegan leather

Hope’s jacket is still draped over the back of Amy’s chair. She discovers it walking back into her room after dinner—having been distracted before dinner by telling Molly all about everything! 

Molly updates about Jared too, of course, stays long enough to eat three vegan meatballs and then beats a hasty retreat before the arrival of the dairy-free, sugar-free dessert. Amy figures she’ll go to bed on the early side and, yes, fine, she’s going to stare at the ceiling and moon over Hope until that overcomes her natural reticence about … well, what she plans to do while thinking about Hope. 

Is it okay to get off thinking about an actual person? She’s really only ever thought about movie stars and musicians and the feminist scholars she's pretty sure wouldn't mind being objectified by a teen as long as she also respects their work. 

And then she walks into the room and spies the jacket. She sits on the lower bunk and stares at it for a bit. Walks over and sniffs it, feeling like an enormous dork, but really delighted to be inhaling the scent of Hope, which is like wildflowers in the sun on a hill beside a raging forest fire (the natural kind that clears out old growth).

She should be some kind of honorable about this. She messages Hope: _You left your jacket._

Hope replies a few minutes later: _Bring it Friday._

Amy types: _Can I wear it? _

A faster reply this time: _Can you?_

Amy: _Maybe I’ll wear it to bed. _

Hope: _Send me a pic._

Amy: _Absolutely not._

Hope: _Chicken_

She is not a chicken. She’s going to Botswana with lions and stuff. So she shucks off her shirt and puts the jacket on over her bra. It’s soft and feels warm inside, like Hope just took it off—though that’s probably because the setting sun cast a few fading rays through the window onto the jacket. Or maybe everything about Hope, everything in proximity to her and associated with her, is naturally hot all the time.

Amy takes a selfie and looks at it for a while. She kind of looks good in it. As good as she can without her head, because she didn’t put her face in the photo; she’s not stupid. But taking a sort of hot photo in her desk chair won’t do, so she climbs up into her bed, leans back on the pillows and takes it again. 

This time she sends it to Hope. 

_Nice! _Hope texts back.

Amy wants to ask for a photo back but doesn’t dare. Anyway, it’s getting late. And Hope likes the photo. Maybe Hope isn’t texting more than one word because her hands are busy. Amy really hopes so. She thinks about Hope’s hand sliding down her belly into her shorts.

She shrugs out of the jacket and curls it into a bundle she can hold against her chest, lowers her nose to it and inhales deeply, thinking about having her hand down Hope’s shorts, imagining Hope doing that right now, considering how that would feel based on what she remembers from the afternoon.

The jacket, she realizes, when curled up is similar in diameter to the size of Ling Ling the panda.

She should not. 

But she slides the bundled up jacket between her legs and it’s right. She can imagine that it’s Hope’s thigh. Amy rolls over so the jacket is between her and the bed. Really she should practice at this point: put her hand down her panties and imagine she’s Hope and … she doesn’t get that far. She looses it and spasms and has to bite the pillow so she won’t make noises her parents can hear. 

When she can pay attention to anything outside of her body, she listens carefully, but all she hears is the distant drone of the TV. She should put the jacket anywhere that isn’t her bed, but she leaves it there and, after she’s brushed her teeth and said good night to her folks, she falls asleep with it in her arms. 

Not that it stays there. In the early morning hours it migrates lower and she rubs against it for longer, half awake, smelling Hope in her bed and wishing for her, imagining her, feeling a deep, slow orgasm roll through her body before falling asleep again. 

Waking up with a jolt when she realizes that her panties got kicked off in the middle of the night and—crap, there is a spot on the tan vegan leather that’s darker than the surrounding area. It’s about two fingers wide and three times longer and really could look like Amy had just spilled food or maybe a viscous liquid on the jacket while wearing it, except that the spot is on the _back_ of the jacket. 

She shoves the jacket under her sheet and fumbles for her phone to look up how to clean vegan leather. Her mom finds her in the laundry room, reading the ingredients on the Woolite bottle and trying to figure out if vegan leather counts as a delicate. 

“What’s that, honey?” her mom asks.

Amy puts her body between the jacket on the washer and her mom. “Oh it’s, uh, a friend of mine’s jacket. We got … ice cream on it the other day and I said I’d see if I could get it out.”

“I know just what to do,” her mom says. She reaches neatly around Amy, grabs the jacket and carries it into the kitchen.

She sets it on the center island, backside up, dark spot beyond obvious. It's in the middle of the back, a nearly impossible location to spill anything kind of food or drink. And in the bright light of the kitchen it looks so dark and so wet still.

Amy folds an arm of the jacket over the spot while her mom gets out a small mixing bowl and adds dishwashing soap, vinegar and water. She pulls the jacket across the island, dips a kitchen towel in the bowl and dabs at the jacket. Amy is definitely throwing that towel away before it can get used in the kitchen ever again. But for now she has to watch helplessly as her mom applies the slightly bubbly solution to what is very much _not_ an ice cream stain.

“The secret is to get it very wet,” her mom says and Amy wants to disintegrate. “And then you have to give it time to penetrate.” She sets the towel to one side and starts rubbing the big wet spot with her bare fingers.

Amy grabs the jacket away, “Oh God, Mom, it’s fine. Do I just rinse it off or what?”

“You should rub it too.”

“What?!”

“You know, fold it up over the stain and rub the sides together, really get in there.”

Amy is praying that her mom doesn’t say “penetrate” again.

“What are we doing?” her dad asks from the doorway. 

“I’m trying to show Amy how to get an ice cream stain out of her friend’s jacket.”

“From the back of the jacket? What did you do?” he asks, teasingly. “Food fight?”

He has no idea. 

“Yeah, Dad, we were just goofing off. She got some on my jeans,” Amy says. And down her jeans and maybe into her underpants except that Amy's pretty sure most of the wetness down there wasn't from ice cream. 

“Oh our little girl is blushing,” Dad says. “Does Molly know this other girl? She might get jealous.” 

For a second, Amy considers bursting out about a (fake) poly triad, just to get them off the topic of this jacket. But they’d probably end up lecturing her on safer sex for triads. With her luck, they’d have watched a documentary about the poly lifestyle last week.

She is not sitting through a lecture about safer sex for triads when she hasn’t even had sex yet! Not really. Not the way she wants. 

And now, before she can think about that and about the double date, she’s got to figure out how to get vegan leather to stop smelling like vinegar and the only ideas she’s got come with a high risk of re-staining the jacket. 


	4. Scissoring is not a thing

Jared took them all to a very respectable, double date dinner and then drove scenically around while he and Molly tried to figure out what to do next. He’d borrowed one of his dad’s SUVs for the night, so the back seat had plenty of room. When they’d gotten into the back seat again after dinner, Hope had picked up the edge of a throw blanket that had been folded in the footwell and tossed it casually across her and Amy’s laps.

Now her fingers are working their way up the inside of Amy’s thigh. 

Amy feels pretty solid about her decision to pre-bate this date. She hadn’t known that was a thing until this afternoon when she’d carefully fired up an incognito browser to ask the internet what to do about being super horny on a date. Having spent two nights with Hope’s jacket in her bed (the second in both panties and sleep shorts, to be on the safe side) she feared that she’d already developed a Pavlovian response to Hope’s scent.

While sneaking around online, she’d also watched a few more minutes of lesbian porn, just to be on the safe side, which of course made the pre-bating more than necessary and easy to accomplish in the shower. 

If she hadn’t taken that prepatory step, she’d be squirming all over the place now instead of sitting coolly still as Hope’s very hot fingers inch up to the edge of her shorts. Molly is saying something about a nature walk, so Amy makes sounds of agreement. Nature means woods means trees means she and Hope can lean against one and make out—and then she can get her hand down Hope’s pants again, and now she’s squirming. 

By the time Jared pulls into a dark parking lot by walking trails, Hope’s fingers are tucked under the leg of Amy’s shorts and have almost reached her panties. 

“There’s a great trail just there,” Jared says. “You can see the water.”

“Let’s go!” Molly turns around in her seat, sees the look on Amy’s face, the blanket, Hope’s innocently neutral expression. Molly’s eyebrows quirk up in the middle as she asks, “You coming?”

“Uh, in a bit?” Amy replies. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Molly says. And to Jared: “They’ll catch up.”

“It’s a really great view with the moon coming up,” he says, starting to turn toward the backseat.

Molly catches his shoulder and gives him a little push toward the door. They leave with the keys in the ignition, the windows open enough to catch the cool breeze. Amy is holding her breath as Molly’s voice recedes toward the trees.

And then she’s kissing Hope, being kissed back hard, Hope’s fingers sliding the last half inch to find the already wet crotch of Amy’s panties. Hope breaks off kissing and pulls her hand away so she can get both hands on Amy’s shorts, unzipping them.

Minutes later, driven by the need to touch Hope and be touched by her, Amy has her shorts and panties off, and keeps tugging the blanket up to cover her butt. There aren’t cars right next to theirs, but she saw some across the parking lot and heard other kids’ voices. And everyone knows this is a regular place kids come to make out and smoke weed and drink. 

Hope slides down to lie across the seats with Amy mostly on top of her. Hope’s shorts are off, her panties still on, but Amy can get her fingers down them, except she’s straddling one of Hope’s thighs, so she has to rotate her left hand a hundred and eighty degrees to get her fingers pointing the right way. She’s got her other hand gripping the back of the seat for balance, but that’s probably not going to be enough because Hope’s fingers have found their way down to where Amy is starting to get her thigh kind of wet. Okay, very. The pre-bating has definitely worn off.

Hope’s fingers stroke down and up, the upstroke making Amy twitch as intense jolts shoot up her nerves into the roots of the teeth. She makes a sound less like porn noises and more like a woodchuck being body-checked by a bear, but Hope doesn’t seem to mind. She’s staring up at Amy, her eyes so wide and dark they look like the night sky. Her perfect lips are open, chest rising and falling fast. Amy tries to keep her balance and kiss her at the same time. She doesn’t want to rest her hips on Hope because that might stop the motion of her fingers.

The kissing is a mess but neither of them care. Lips and tongues sliding off each other as they struggle to kiss and breathe. Amy manages to get her fingers under Hope’s panties, but she can’t move them at all, they’re just pressing there while Hope plays over the small, intense landscape that’s taking all Amy’s brainpower. 

“Run! Run! Don’t look back!” Jared is yelling as footsteps pelt toward the car. He leaps into the driver’s seat as Molly slides into the passenger side. As soon as her door shuts, he has the SUV in reverse, executing a fast three point turn. 

Momentum shoves Amy back and then further forward across Hope’s body. Her boobs almost hit Hope’s chin, but she braces her hands against the door.

“Not that way,” Molly says. “The lights.”

“Shit! Hold on, we’re going to off-road this!”

“Cops,” Molly explains over her shoulder as they bump over the low curb at the edge of the parking lot. “Busting the smokers and drinkers.”

“We don’t—“ Amy manages.

“Pretty sure my dad’s got something illegal in here,” Jared says. “Not going to let the cops search it and find out.” 

The SUV bumps and rocks along a dirt path designed for dog walkers and mountain bikers. Amy can tell which path it is based on the direction and how close the trees are to the windows. But she only gets a moment to look because the jounces are shifting her back down Hope’s body and they’re going to knock the blanket off and flash her butt for Molly and Jared to see. 

She keeps one hand braced on the door and reaches behind herself to grab the blanket and pull it more over their bodies. But it’s only anchored next to her waist, the bottom part is still siding down

Hope also has an arm pressing against the door so she won’t slide up and bang her head on it. Her other hand reaches down and grabs the blanket, helping Amy keep it in place. Amy almost has the breath to say “thank you,” except Hope is holding the lower part of the blanket with her arm between Amy’s legs. The next bump slides her backward, pressing her most naked parts against Hope’s wrist and forearm. 

“Oh,” Hope breathes. She shifts to the right, pinning Amy’s leg between her hip and the seat back. 

The SUV bumps and stutters through the woods. Now instead of jarring Amy up and down, the motion rocks her against Hope’s wrist. The strength leaves her legs and she’s slumped diagonally across Hope, her boobs almost in Hope’s face, Hope’s boobs somewhere in her midrif. But most of her focus is between her legs where Hope’s wrist and forearm press into her.

Hope isn’t moving her arm very much. Maybe she can’t or she doesn’t realize quite how this position has worked out. Her breathing is muffled into Amy’s shirt, but Amy feels the hot, fast puffs of air between her boobs. 

“You two okay back there?” Jared asks, and Amy wonders what sounds they’ve been making. 

“They’re fine,” Molly says. “We need escape music.” She puts the radio on, too loud, and Amy is so grateful because she’s full on moaning and whimpering with her face against the new-smelling edge of the seat cushion. She’s trying not to move because every fraction of an inch makes it worse.

She is not going to come in the backseat of an SUV—at least not during Jared’s dramatic escape scene. She is determined and tightens all the muscles in her lower belly and pelvis against the stunning sensations coming from Hope’s skin on hers.

Which is a mistake.

The SUV bounces around a rocky curve, Hope’s wrist pressing and rubbing, and Amy is coming so hard she has to bite the seat to keep from yelling. She’s exploding in from that point of contact—not imploding because there’s too much outward motion—all of it reverberates in and gathers force. She’s thrashing and Hope is clutching her and the blanket harder, mashing them together. 

Muscles clench and release, she’s so wet she’s afraid she might have peed a little. The idea makes her shiver and try to curl in on herself, which presses her into Hope’s wrist, the hard edge of bone under her skin, and she can’t stop, she’s thrusting against her, coming again. 

They hit a level stretch and Amy takes her mouth off the seat cushion, tries to catch her breath. Hope’s wrist is moving gently up and down, stroking Amy’s over-sensitive lips and throbbing clit. She can’t stop rocking her hips to match Hope’s movements. Trancelike, dreamy, driving smoothly along the freeway now, the soft motion of the SUV lulling her.

She’s going to be okay, they’ll get home and she’ll … shit, she doesn’t even have her panties on. How is she even going to get out of the car? Is she going to be able to walk? At least she has this drive back to calm down and think about it. At least— 

Jared stops fast at a light, the momentum shoving Amy down hard on Hope and she’s thrashing again, her body clenching and releasing. Hope puts a hand over her mouth and that makes it worse, like the waves of pleasure come up and hit Hope’s hand and double down on her, rolling through her body and wrenching out where Hope’s other arm holds her up. 

She’s limp against Hope now. They drive a few more miles and pull over. 

“My dad’s going to freak when I mention cops,” Jared says. “You want me to drop you guys off first?” 

Amy can’t look. She hears the creek of car seat that is probably Molly turning around to look. At least the blanket is still over her butt. 

“Um, so?” is all Molly can manage. 

Amy feels Hope lift her head from the seat where Amy’s body has pinned her. “Amy’s place, thanks,” she says, her voice low and rough. 

Jared starts driving again and Amy forces herself to focus long enough to fish around by the floorboards and find her panties and shorts. She and Hope disentangle gently and she slides into panties and shorts while Hope also gets shorts on. 

“Here,” Molly says when they’re a half block from Amy’s and Amy wants to hug her. 

Jared pulls over. “You two okay? No bruises from the off-road portion of our evening?”

Amy thinks her clit might be bruised for how swollen and intense it feels, but she says, “All good. Fine. Thanks. Thank you, it was …”

Hope saves her, leaning forward between the front seats and saying, “We had a really fun time. You two are okay. I could do this again. Thanks for inviting me.”

“Wow,” Mollly says. “So you like a good police chase.”

“Something like that. Hey, can we borrow this blanket?”

“Sure,” Jared says.

Amy makes her way out of the SUV without falling on her face, though she’s not sure which way is up. Hope comes around the back of the SUV and puts an arm around her waist to guide her to the curb. They sit as Jared pulls away. Hope drapes the blanket over both of them. 

“I’ll walk you home in a few,” she says. “When I’m sure you can form coherent sentences for your parents.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

“Shut up. You’re so fucking unintentionally hot, I can’t.” Hope puts her hands on Amy’s cheeks and pulls her into a long kiss. 

When Amy draws back, to check and make sure this has all really happened, she sees the very long, dark wet stain on the wrist of Hope’s jacket. She’d been wearing it the whole time. The soft faux leather, when warm, was similar enough to skin that Amy hadn’t realized she was riding, that is humping, Hope’s jacket as much as her bare wrist. 

“Oh shit. We can get this out. You just use vinegar and dishsoap and—“

“Is that why I got my jacket back smelling like vinegar?” Hope asks. “How many stains did you have to get out?”

“Just one!”

Hope’s expression opens into mirth and wonder. “You’re serious. You did! You got off with my jacket? Well now I guess a few times. What, like, three?”

Amy shakes her head, staring at the pavement under her feet, trying to count the flecks of lighter color in it until the burning in her cheeks settles down. 

“Four?” Hope asks. 

“Counting tonight? Uh, five.”

Hope kisses her cheek and whispers, “Are you sure you’re not just after me for my jacket.”

“I’m sure,” Amy grumbles. “Do you want me to take it home and wash it?”

“No, I’m keeping it like this.”

“What? No. You can’t.”

“I like it this way. Besides your real concern should be if there’s someplace we can change or if you’re okay walking into your house wearing my shorts.” 


	5. No, scissoring is really not a thing

Saturday morning, Molly arrives with complicated coffee beverages and actual muffins, which is a godsend since Amy's dad recently made a batch of muffins out of tree bark and naturally scavenged mushrooms that probably aren't deadly, but Amy's not willing to chance it. Especially since she realized the instant she woke up that she doesn't know if Hope has ever had an orgasm with her and she _really_ needs to remedy that.

"How would I know?" she asks Molly. She's sitting on the top bunk, like usual, legs dangling over the side, while Molly has propped herself up on a few pillows on the lower one, staring up at her.

"She'd made some sounds or an awkward come-face," Molly says.

"But her face was mashed into my boobs—it's not like I'd know. And some people are quiet."

"You're not," Molly tells her in a tone that communicates how much she is very not quiet.

"Ugh, God. How bad was it?"

"Jared doesn't know. I told him Hope was elbowing you in the gut," Molly says. "Repeatedly. Like really a lot."

"Thanks. Can I just never go out with you two again?" Amy asks, unsure that she can ever face Jared again.

"No. You have to woman-up, take life by the ovaries, text Hope and get her to come over. Your folks are going out antiquing, right? You've got the whole day. Get her here and scissor her into oblivion."

"That's not ... "

"Shush, my budding baby lesbian, you have much to learn. Now, join me in a piece of theater that will outshine even Shakespeare in the Park--ing lot."

"What?"

"Get down here," Molly tells her as she stands up from the lower bunk.

Amy climbs down and lets Molly position her by the desk.

"Stay there," Molly says and walks to the door. She listens for a moment and then cracks it open. Turning back to Amy, she whispers, "Forgive me, my queer blossom, this is all for you."

Before Amy can lunge across the room and clasp a hand over Molly's mouth, Molly is shouting: "Hope? HOPE?! How _could_ you?"

Molly grabs Amy's wrist, the two of them awkwardly wrestling in a standing position. Molly refusing to be silenced.

"Stop it," Amy tells her. "My parents can hear you!"

"Let them!" Molly bellows. "The world should know what you've done! I can't believe you went out with her! I know we said we could have an open relationship and I’m seeing Jared, but really!!!”

"Molly, dammit. This isn't—"

"No, don't defend!" Molly pushes Amy a step away and presses a hand to her forehead, suffering from a terrible case of overacting.

"I'm not. Just stop yelling."

"How can I when you broke my heart! We were supposed to go to college together. Is she going to Botswana with you? You're going to let her roll your tampon, aren't you? Aren't you! Answer me!"

Amy doesn't answer because this is all the ridiculous Molly show now. Also she's pretty worried about Molly's grasp of lesbian sex mechanics if she's going to use tampon-rolling as the metaphor. Plus she's beyond certain that her parents are listening avidly from the end of the hall.

"Do you care for her?" Molly asks. "Do you really want her? It's not fair, is it, for me to have Jared and want you all to myself. My beloved, my beautiful flower, I want you to bloom no matter whose soil you must be planted in, but I can't stand here and listen to you go on about her. Hope this, Hope that. I know you're taken with her just ... be kind. Don’t make me listen. Text me when you're willing to talk about something else, anything else. Farewell for now, my first, best love!"

With that Molly slams the door open and stomps through the house, not slamming the front door, but shutting it definitively behind her.

Of course Doug and Charmaigne rush into Amy's room to sweep her up into a double hug.

"We're so sorry," her mom says. "Oh your first breakup, you must be heartbroken. We can stay home, watch movies, eat ice cream, talk all about it."

"Our baby growing up so fast," her dad adds. "I could break-up some eggs for omelets."

"I'm okay, really. I could use some space to process this," Amy says, backing out of the smothering. "You know, journal and stuff. It's fine. I figured with her also dating Jared that she wouldn't be so upset, but it was time."

"Who's Hope?" her mom asks. Exactly like Molly planned, Amy realizing, with all that loud shouting of Hope's name during the fake fight.

"She's ... you know, from my English class. She came by the other day after graduation. We just got closer at the end of the year and she's really smart. You'd like her. I'd invite her over, but I'm leaving in two weeks so it's not a big thing, we're just hanging out."

"Invite her over for dinner anyway," her dad says. "Pick a night. You know we love to meet your friends."

"Sure. But I'm going to journal all my feelings first. It's, uh, really important for me to have space for my emotions. You guys go do your antiquing. You know if you wait other people are going to buy all the best stuff."

Amy sits at her desk and pulls out her fake journal, halfway turning her back to her parents. (Her real journal is online, password protected.) When her parents leave her room, she gets out her phone and texts Hope: _Come over._

After she sends the text, she stares at it for a while. When did she get that demanding? Was that the right thing to say?

Hope replies: _30 min, okay?_

Amy rubs her thumb over "_okay?_" with its tentative punctuation, grinning. She writes back: _yeah. Bring your jacket._

She likes telling Hope what to do and being met with question marks, likes not being the tentative one all the time. Maybe Molly's right and it is time for her beautiful flower to bloom. Amy bites her lip to keep from laughing and writes that in her fake journal.

*

By the time Hope arrives, Amy has an open sleeping bag set up in the basement entertainment room with blankets on it. No one is falling out of that top bunk, nor are they going to do this on the lower bunk where Molly was lying just this morning. She pushed the couch back so the sleeping bag fits easily between couch and TV. It's more than big enough for both of them, since Amy plans to spend most of their time together on top of Hope.

Amy waits upstairs for Hope and lets her in the front door for the first time. She leads Hope into the kitchen and gets them both sparking fruit water: pomegranate-acai, which is the only decent flavor of the brand her mom likes.

"Fancy," Hope says.

Amy doesn't reply because she can't. She's so nervous her tongue is sticking to the room of her mouth. She just nods toward the basement steps and walks down them, leaving Hope to follow.

"We've known each other long enough that I get to see your secret lair?" Hope jokes. "Your batcave?" But that question trails off as Hope sees the sleeping bag and blankets and she says, "Oh."

Amy takes a sip of pomegranate-acai bubble water and says, "You weren't enthusiastic about my bunk bed, so I set this up. But we don't have to."

She turns so she can see Hope standing on the bottom step, wide eyes fixed on the blankets, mouth slightly open. Hope blinks and meets Amy's gaze. "What do you want?" she asks.

Amy almost says: _I want to do what you want._ But not only does that sound wrong, it _is_ wrong.

"I want us to be safe and consenting," she says. "I want to know you'll stop me if you want to stop. I'll do the same."

Hope shrug-nods and opens her mouth to talk.

"I'm not done," Amy interrupts and Hope shuts her mouth into a smirk. "I want you to take off your jacket and lie down there, in the middle."

She expects Hope to argue and yet, at the same time, she knows Hope isn't going to. The air around them is dense, pushing them toward each other. Hope descends the last step and reaches for Amy, who takes her hand and pulls her toward the makeshift bed. Hope kneels at the edge of the blankets and shrugs out of her jacket.

"Wait," Amy says as Hope lowers herself toward the blankets. "Take off your shoes." She doesn't move to help. She stands and watches Hope fumble with the laces and tug off the Converse.

Hope stretches across the blankets and leans back on her elbows, not quite lying down, looking up at Amy. Amy kneels on the blanket's edge, crawls on top of Hope and kisses her down into the blanket. Hope's body sighs and gives way under her. Amy kisses her lips, face, neck, ears, earlobes, collarbones, while her fingers work their way up Hope's sides, laddering up her ribs, finding the lower curve of her bra.

"Just take it off," she growls and Hope does, then tugs off Amy's shirt too. Amy peels off her bra and lies down on top of Hope. Their breasts together are too much perfect softness. Amy has to shift her hips so she won't thrust against Hope. This time she is not going to come first.

She really wants to go slow, kiss all over Hope's skin, tease her nipples, but once she starts moving down the center of Hope's chest, she can't stop. Her fingers have found the button of Hope's denim shorts and popped it open. She sits up enough to tug off Hope's shorts and panties, and then she's kissing her way down the soft rise of Hope's belly.

The porn has not helped, nor has the "How to Give a Woman Oral Sex" page from Wikihow, and it doesn't matter because as soon as she can smell Hope, smell the salty musk rising from between her legs, she's forgotten all of that. She's never wanted anything as much as she wants to put this breathtakingly delicate part of Hope in her mouth.

She licks and sucks in the places that seem interesting to suck on, feeling Hope's body rocking under her. Hope isn't silent, she's gasping, then making soft whimpering sounds that zing lightning bolts down Amy's spine.

Amy slides a finger between Hope's very wet inner lips, but when she tries to push in, Hope flinches, says "ow" and grabs Amy's wrist.

"Sorry," Amy tells her, face still inches from Hope's pussy because she doesn't want to be any farther away. She tries to withdraw her hand, but Hope won't let go.

"Relax your hand, except your finger," Hope says. She pulls up on Amy's wrist, angling her index finger down more than Amy thinks it should be. Then she pushes Amy's finger between her lips again, into her. 

Amy is mouth-open panting in amazement. She's put a finger inside herself before but it's nothing—nothing like this! All the softness and the silky wet, the long whispered moan Hope makes that ends in, "Yes, keep going."

Amy pushes her finger in another inch and another until that's as far as it can go. She puts her mouth back on Hope's softness, tonguing around, trying to find her clit. Hope's hips are twitching, making it hard to keep her place, so she sticks her tongue out and licks wherever she can reach as Hope rocks into her. When she opens her eyes enough to peek, she sees Hope's fists knotted in the blanket, her body arching beautifully.

She still has no idea how to make Hope come. She figures she'll keep doing anything that makes Hope's breath get faster or evokes one of those whimpered moans. She wants to reach her hand—the one not busy partly inside Hope—up to Hope's breast, but can't figure out how to do that. She’s already half resting her face on Hope and the hip rocking is making it hard to keep her balance

Amy plants her hand on Hope's hip and presses down, trying to hold her still. That seems to help, so she moves her hand more central, to Hope's lower belly and pubic bone, and presses again. Hope's hips slow and Amy presses harder. Hope makes a choked, half-sobbed gasp, arms rigid and shaking—a shaking that spreads across her body as wetness slicks down over Amy's hand.

She feels Hope's clit then, hard and pulsing against her lips, so she flicks it with her tongue as Hope sobs and shakes and spills over her. She wants to see Hope's face. As Hope's shaking quiets, she pushes up enough to look at Hope's tightly closed eyes and open mouth, beautiful lips wide and gasping. There's a flush on her throat and upper chest and her nipples are tight points.

Amy kisses one nipple, the other, Hope's throat, her chin—and by then Hope is turning her face down, finding Amy's mouth, kissing her back, sliding a little in the slick wetness still on Amy's face.

Hope breaks the kiss to breathe and stare at Amy, so Amy sits back on her heels and gaze down at the mess of the blankets around Hope and at the dark, wet spot on the blanket between Hope's legs.

She could do this every day between now and Botswana. Maybe twice.

She made a girl come. She's the fairly-elected President of the World.

"Hang on, you made a mess," Amy says, and—in the new smoothest thing she's ever done—uses the formerly clean arm of Hope's jacket to mop up some of the hot liquid between Hope's legs.

"Oh. You." Hope doesn't seem to have enough breath for two-word sentences. "Fuck. Jesus."

Amy's about to attempt something else smooth when she hears the door open upstairs and her dad yells, "Come see what we found!"

She freezes in panic until she hears her mom call from her bedroom door, "Where are you? Doug found the perfect credenza."

"I have to—" she says, standing up.

"Shirt," Hope interrupts. She jolts to sitting, grabs Amy's shirt and throws it to her. "Where does this go?" she asks, waving at the bed.

"Big closet over there. Do you want to meet them?"

"Yeah, Amy, I totally want to meet your parents two minutes after you fucked me into oblivion."

Amy is saved from asking, "I did?" by her mom yelling down the basement steps, "Are you down there?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'll be right there. I was just ... stretching."

She kisses Hope quickly and runs up the stairs. There's a new piece of furniture in the living room and honestly Amy couldn't tell a good credenza from a bad one, so she keeps saying "great," while her brain is downstairs between Hope's legs.

Her dad tosses an arm over her shoulders and asks, "How are you feeling? You were so sad this morning?"

"I'm good. I'm okay," Amy says. Her phone buzzes and she slides it out of her pocket to peek. Hope is texting her from her own basement, saying: _Tell me you at least wiped your face._

The meaning of that sentence reveals itself to her three seconds too late for her to avoid being dragged into a three-way hug with her parents. She ducks her head so her forehead hits her dad's shoulder. The skin around her lips is still damp. She tries to get a hand to her face, but her dad thinks this means he should hug her tighter and wiggle comfortingly. It is not comforting.

Unable to come up with an elegant solution, Amy drops to the floor and rolls backwards, like she's on fire. She wipes a hand across her face and then, on her way to standing, shoves her hand into her pocket, since both her parents are trying to help her up. The way this is going, they're going to head to the basement next, see the wet spot on the blanket—and Hope—and know she was not stretching. Or at least not by herself.

"I slipped. I'm good! The credenza is lovely! I just have to go clean up the basement. I put some blankets down for the, uh, stretching." She bolts down the stairs before they can stop her, but the room is empty. The sleeping bag and blankets must be back in the closet. She goes into the laundry room and looks at the window above the dryer. Yes, it's unlocked. Hope actually climbed out that high, narrow basement window.

Then she turns around and sees that Hope left her jacket hanging by the laundry room door, both arms stained now. Amy bundles it up, grinning, and takes it up to her room.


End file.
